


The Vortex

by Macko_m



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Despair, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 07:48:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9712058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macko_m/pseuds/Macko_m
Summary: Holmes did not attend Watson's wedding.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> As Byron said: it comes over me every now and then. And then, if I don’t write, I go mad.
> 
> This is a one shot piece. I’ve no idea where it derived from.

He is gone. I did not attend the wedding ceremony, alas, I would never have dreamt of going there, and Watson was wise enough not to ask me to be his best man. I had been watching the rising excitement and anxiety that had growing within my good friend, following the euphoria of the first weeks, but only when the great day had finally arrived did I realize the situation in which I am now.

They married the day before yesterday, and Mrs Hudson assured me that it was a most charming little congregation, the bride was very pretty, and the groom… To my shame I must admit that I did not hear her out. I cannot even recall what I said to her, but when I looked up again, the room was empty.

I feel a restlessness inside of me, some burning desire to act, yet I cannot tell what makes me feel so. There is this ridiculous case I am working on, a mere trifle, the important facts are neatly collected, and all I can do is wait. I look around the room, my eyes wander over piles of paper that call for being leafed through, a clutter of laboratory instruments that urgently need cleaning, and an empty hat stand. I feel a sudden pain in my hand, and only then do I realize that I have clenched my fist that tightly that my fingernails have imprinted themselves in my palm. There seem to be slightly older marks, too, but how they got there I cannot bring to mind.

This state of mind is not entirely new to me, but right now I cannot find a reasonable answer as to where it derives from, and why it is so intense. But, of course, I know: it is the hat stand. I only regarded it with the usual attention, taking in its emptiness, and my mind added an emotional aspect. It will remain empty unless my friend comes back to me. This time, a feeling similar to that of a clenching fist manifests itself in my stomach, and a sudden nausea takes hold of me.

After emptying last night’s dinner into the bowl, I try to fight the convulsions, and cleaning my face I feel that it is wet. My eyes are burning. I attribute this to the lack of sleep; three nights with little or no rest are taking their toll. I have to lie down. My knees are shaking, probably due to the exhaustion, and I stagger to my bed. Must have been something I have eaten. Of maybe my stomach is not used any more to forcibly being stuffed full every other day, or whenever I think of it. With no one to remind me…

I shiver when lying down, chide myself for not having asked Mrs Hudson to feed the fire, and pull up all the blankets I can reach. I stay in bed for a while, maybe one hour or more, but sleep will not come. Trembling, I get up again and reach for the doorframe to support me. The room is still turning, but I know it is the poor circulation only, and it will surely get better when I move. On my way to the desk, I grab the water bottle and empty it, swaying only slightly. Then I see it slip from my hand, and I watch it fall, wandering how long it takes to hit the floor, and why I am not able to catch it.

The syringe is there, and not completely empty, but it seems that this is the last leftover. Strange, as far as I remember, I did not have that much of the obnoxious stuff during the past days. It cannot possibly be that I have spent such an amount within only two days. Nay, I must be mistaken, and there probably is another ampoule somewhere further back. I force my shaking hands to calm and inject the leftovers that are still in the plunger. 

Immediately, the heat bursts through my system, warming me from within, and the powerful feeling of momentary euphoria makes my brain spin. But it is not enough, I hear myself laughing loudly, madly, and too soon, much too soon the pain starts again. I hear myself sobbing. The depravation is pressing me down rapidly, and my stomach rebels once more, even though there is nothing much left to expel. 

For a moment, I must sit down, and when I run my hands over my face, I feel that they are wet with tears once more, or at least my nose is running, an occurrence which is not entirely new to me. It is nothing, my body merely needs some rest. I open the drawer once more and grope for the other ampoule, this time the morphine one, which is fortunately still where I had left it. I need to calm down. Reason shortly intervenes, reminding me of the cocaine I have recently used on me, but I convince myself that it has only been some leftovers, which would also explain the rapid fading of its effects. 

Finally, the great tranquillity comes over me. I feel the syringe slip from my fingers, but the room stops spinning, and I find some rest, at last. I drop down from the chair, down on the welcoming carpet, where I can bury myself and let the world turn without me, at least for some time. And the world goes dark.

Through my muffled hearing I can discern a strangely familiar sound, and I interpret it as the door opening. I do not care, I am lying most comfortably on the carpet, sinking in, deeper and deeper. There, an oddly well-known voice reaches my ear, but I cannot make out what it says. And then, I hear it shout my name. “Holmes!”


	2. The Vortex - Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The answer to part one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the explanation to the previous, taking place before part one. Another one shot piece. Have fun.

“I will not,” Holmes says as an answer to my asking him if he would attend my wedding. His face is turned away from me and towards the window, so that he is in fact talking to the window pane, and the tone of his voice is cool, somewhat indifferent, as if he was merely making a passing remark. I cannot discern his features, yet I do see his jaw muscles working, and I immediately recognize that I have made a mistake of some sort. But of course! how could I ever dream of inviting my best friend to such an occasion, while I should be well aware of his adversity to any kinds of social gatherings. 

I am about to say something close to an apology when Holmes turns to face me, and upon seeing his face I fall silent. His whole demeanour gives me an idea about how much he is fighting to control himself, yet the strain shows in the rigidity of his expression, and even if all this escaped me, I would still recognize the shine in his eyes. I wince inwardly, trying to compose myself adequately, if only to prevent both of us from behaving childishly now. There is no need for that kind of folly. I am getting married, and I would have liked to see my best friend rejoice for my sake, but instead I have to realize that he is on the verge of crying, which obliges me to comfort him.

“Now, now,” I say. “This does certainly not infringe our friendship, old chap, nor will I refrain from meeting you.” I feel strangely compelled to expatiate on the necessity of a man in my age to finally settle down, have a family, in other words to become sober and live up to the traditions, but at the same time all this is stuck in my throat, and instead of explaining my reasons to him, I once more fall silent.

When he hears my words, even though they are meant to cheer him up, Holmes’ features merely harden, his hands drop, and he is standing in front of me like a young boy who has just lost his favourite puppy and tries not to show his despair. In spite of his aquiline features and the still keen expression of his never resting eyes, he now looks utterly lost and hurt, and I have to fight back the impulse to hug him.

Of course, I could do nothing of the sort. Such an overly emotional display would be indecent and inadequate, and besides, he would probably shove me away. Hence, instead of comforting him, I merely remain standing in front of him, looking up at his mask-like face. There is a single tear rolling down his cheek, and his lower lip starts trembling, ever so softly, and still none of us speak a word. I wonder what on earth could shake him so, while secretly the leanings of my heart know what is going on, and what is more, they have known all the time.

“Holmes, I…” I start again, and once again I am at a lack of words. Now, my friend sways, while his face still shows no signs of emotion, apart from this one tear that has made its way down to his softly trembling chin. Feeling completely at a loss, all I can do is extend my hand towards him to say good-bye. I am not taken by surprise that he declines to accept it and instead turns away to look out the window once more.

“Well then,” I hear myself saying. “I will call… afterwards.” I walk to the door, where I stop and turn to look at my friend’s back one more time. 

“All the best,” he suddenly utters, without turning towards me. “Good-bye.” The words sound as if they are being forced out, but at least I hear his voice, and apart from a certain strain it sounds reasonably firm. It is more than I would ask for, being also aware of his aversion against marriage in general.

“Thank you, good-bye,” I reply, and linger for another moment, but when he does not change his position, I take my hat from the hat stand, leave the room and silently close the door behind me. I go down the stairs more slowly than I need to, and I realize that a part of me is still hoping for Holmes to accompany me to the door, as a minimum, but there is no sound emerging from his room, and so I leave the house behind me. I have a numb feeling in my guts, strangely gnawing, but in spite of my awareness where it really derives from, I put it down to my general apprehension.

One day later, I am walking down the aisle to meet my wonderful wife-to-be. The church is full of merry folk, both of us having a remarkably large family, even though I have not seen most of my lot for the better part of my life. The organ is humming, but it can hardly drown the sound of my own heart beating in my throat and my blood rushing in my ears as if it is going to make my head burst. Mary turns towards me, and she is looking so indescribably beautiful, I can make out her delicate features under the thin white veil, and once more I feel that I could not have found a more lovely woman on earth. I am entirely grateful to her that she chose me, of all men, to be granted the right to love her.

For a precious moment, our fingers touch, and I feel the familiar bolt of heat inside of me, then Mary additionally warms me with her smile, and we both turn towards the altar. And then, something strange happens to me. While the priest is talking, I feel an inexplicable sadness come over me, from whence I cannot tell, and instead of listening to the holy words, I feel that I am exposed to an uncontrollable upsurge of memories. 

Holmes… touching my hand ever so softly, here and there, the more I think of it, the more intense do the memories get, and then I see his eyes, the way he would look at me, his smile, and I hear his voice, not the words alone, but the way he would put them, the things he would tell me without telling me. And I suddenly realize what an utter fool I have been. 

Great God! What am I doing? What am I doing here, in this holy place, listening to the sacrament of matrimony, declaring in my one and only love, while I should have known all the time what my real true love is. My mind is racing, my vision blurring, but I cannot turn back now, there is no way out, and I look up at the priest through a veil of tears. Does he know what I am thinking? I try to utter the words that I everyone expects me to utter, but there is no sound coming from my lips. For a moment, I fear that the priest could read my thoughts, but then he smiles benevolently, and when I feel Mary’s hand on my arm, pressing it reassuringly, I realize that they both think I am choked with emotion.

I have to pull it through now. I must. I owe it not only to my sweet Mary, but also to all that I have been living by, all that I am proud of: traditions, honour, integrity. One more time, I think of Holmes, and I force myself to think of the reasons why I could not possibly go the other way: his direction. That way lies chaos, that way lies madness even. Finally, I understand why I have to take this important step, whatever the cost might be. It is the only way I can stay in contact with my beloved friend, just because there has to be one of us who is not allowed to run wild, and that one am I, and Mary will be my anchor.

Drawing a deep breath, I raise my face towards the priest once more, and this time I manage to smile. My voice is loud and firm now. “I do.”


End file.
